The  Author 
*'Buck  Private"  McCollum 


Copyright.  1921 

L.  C.  McCOLLUM 

All  Rights  Reserved 


On*  Hundred  Sixty-fifth  Thousandth 


A  Tribute 


Written  Expressly  for  This  Publication  by  Col.  C.  W. 
Whittlesey,  Commander  of  "The  Lost  Battalion** 

As  one  of  the  members  of  a  regiment  that  fought  in  France,  the 
memories  that  are  most  vivid  with  me,  now  that  two  years  have 
gone  since  the  war  has  ended,  £ire  the  memories  of  the  nights  and 
days  when  the  simple  unknown  soldiers  of  the  regiment  showed 
their  fineness  under  trial.  In  a  forest  in  northeastern  France  in  a 
cold  and  damp  October,  without  rations,  without  surgical  atten- 
tion, cut  off,  as  t'.:?y  supposed,  from  the  notice  of  their  fellow  men, 
they  gave  to  the  u-iy's  hardships  and  duties  a  courage  and  plain 
human  kindliness  that  will  always  make  one  proud  of  the  record 
of  the  American  soldier.  Such  achievements  are  not  attributable 
to  any  officer  or  group  of  officers  or  leaders.  They  arise  from 
brave  men  working  unselfishly  together  with  faith  in  the  cause 
which  they  serve.  When  an  individual  shows  courage  under 
stress,  we  feel  a  thrill  at  his  achievement,  but  when  a  group  of 
men  flash  out  in  the  splendor  of  manliness  we  feel  a  lasting  glow 
that  is  both  pride  and  renewed  faith  in  our  fellow  men.  And  as 
a  member  of  such  a  regiment,  for  which  I  feel  deep  affection,  I 
feel  a  bond  of  understanding  and  fellowship  for  the  American 
soldier  in  every  place  and  time,  doing  his  job  simply  and  finely, 
asking  neither  sympathy  nor  praise.  May  the  armistice  be  last- 
ing, and  these  great  qualities  find  their  true  place  in  Peace. 

November  11,  1920. 


<^^IJ^ 


'orev^orc 


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I've  never  had  a  fling  at  this  thing, 

That  they  call  writin'  an'  such, 
And  haven't  the  art  a  genius  owns. 

To  put  over  the  masterly  touch. 

I  can  only  tell  in  a  Doughboy's  way, 

Things  that  we  all  lived  thru, 
And  if  perchance  you  were  "Up  There," 

You'll  know  that  they  are  true. 

No  artist,  whether  good  or  bad, 

Can  paint  the  sunset's  glow, 
Nor  can  any  man  who  ever  came  back, 

Describe  that  v/ar  and  its  woe. 

So  I'll  lay  no  claim  to  the  master's  touch, 
In  the  thots  I've  expressed  herein. 

But  when  you've  finished  reading  them, 
You'll  know  what  it  cost  to  win. 

You'll  know  how  a  Doughboy  feels  when 
he  fights. 

And  also  the  joys  of  his  play. 
So  may  you  accept  them  just  as  they  are, 

In  a  Doughboy's  own  crude  way. 


iL-tefji 


DISTRIBUTED 

Under  Auspices 

Disabled  Veterans  of  the  World  War 
State  Post  of  California 

incorporated  Maj  15,  1920 


Headquarters 

Ul  WEST  THIRD  STREET 

LOS  ANGELES,  CAL. 


Disabled  Vets!  Communicate  With  Us 


Ind. 


ex 

Page 

A  Tribute 3 

Foreword 5 

"Up  There" 9 

Bully  Beef 10 

Killed  in  Action 11 

Rain!  Rain!  Rain! 12-13 

"Gassed"        14 

Oh,  Boy! 15 

Medal      1*5-17 

Visions 18-19 

The  Pirate  Gun 20 

The  Buck 21 

Those  Who  Wat  r 22-23 

My  Pals 24-25 

History  of  the  Lost  Battalion    .    .    . 

26-27-28-29-30-31 

The  Fight  of  the  Lost  Battalion     .    . 

32-33-34-35-36-37-38 

"Mother" 39 

The  Flare!       40-41-42 

The  Debt 43 

Treasures 44-45-46-47 

Old  Detail  Army 48 

Cooties 49 

The  Bandolier 50-51 

'•Thots!"       32-53 

Our  Chaplain 54 

Buddies 55 

That  Hike 56-57-58 

"We  are  Coming  Back" 59 

"Homeward  Bound" 60 

"Let's  Go!" 61 

"The  Price" 62 

"The  Returns" 63 

Phantoms 64 


"Up  TKere" 


Perhaps  those  two  short  words, 
Don't  sound  like  much  to  you; 

But  they  are  the  entire  volume 
Of  what  we  have  been  thru. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


They  tell  of  Chateau-Thierry  and  the  Vesle, 
And  many  a  brave  and  daring  tale 

Of  the  Argonne,  that  terrible  hell; 

Where  so  many  of  our  brave  comrades  fell. 


They  fell  for  a  cause  that  was  just  and  true, 
To  them  an  undying  tribute  is  due, 

May  God  rest  their  souls  is  our  silent  prayer, 
For  those  who  gave  their  all — "Up  There." 


This  volume  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
"My  Buddies"  who  gave  their  all  "Up  There. 


"Rhyme* 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Bully  Beef 


I  love  my  Canned  Bill,  I  never  knew, 
How  good  that  stuff  could  taste  in  stew, 
I  love  it  hot,  I  love  it  cold, 
Corn  Willie  never  will  grow  old. 

If  you  walk  into  the  kitchen, 
When  thru  your  morning's  drill, 
You  could  bet  your  old  "Tin  Derby,'* 
There  you'd  meet  your  friend  "Corn  Bill.' 

It's  the  thing  that  licked  the  Kaiser, 
In  that   land   across  the  sea. 
And  it  drove  away  our  troubles. 
As  we  fought  for  Liberty. 

They  called  it  iron-rations. 
And  we  packed  the  stuff  for  miles. 
It  was  always  worth  the  effort, 
As  it  filled  our  face  with  smiles. 

He  fought  thru  all  the  battles. 

The  same  as  you  and  me, 

And  I  don't  see  what  ever  keeps  them, 

From  giving  Bill   a  D.   S.   C. 


Killed  in  Action 


"Killed  in  action,"  so  they  say, 
Poor  little  fellow  had  lost  his  way, 
In  Argonne  Woods  and  up  on  the  Vesle, 
He  dug  like  fury  and  crawled  like  a  snail. 

My  billet  was  small,  but  he  didn't  care, 
He'd  dig  himself  in,  and  stay  right  there. 
Yet  he'd  make  things  snappy  while  "diggin'  in," 
For  he  was  plumb  full  of  hell  and  fought  to  win. 

Tho  small  of  stature,  he  was  full  of  fight, 
And  went  "Over  the  Top"  most  every  night. 
Now  all  the  boys  knew  him,  up  on  the  line. 
As  he  kept  them  company  all  the  time. 

He  "fell  in  action,"  game  to  the  last. 
As  thru  our  delouser  the  "wee  fellow"  passed, 
'Good-bye  little  cootie,"  we  must  leave  you  in 

France, 
We  "killed  you  in  action" — and  were  glad  of  the 

chance. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost   Battalion 
Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Rain!  Rain!  Rain! 

Ever  since  I  landed  here, 
Things  have  looked  so  dull  and  drear, 
Wonder  when  I'll  smile  again, 
Wonder  why  there's  so  much  rain? 

My  face  and  hands  are  badly  peeled, 
Practicing  "As  Skirmishers"  in  sodden  fields, 
Body  aches  from  chills  and  pains, 
An'  still  it  rains,  and  rains,  and  rains. 

Tomorrow  we'll  be  on  our  way. 
To  "The  Front"  I  hear  them  say, 
Tonight  we  load  upon  the  trains, 
Wonder  why  it  rains  and  rains? 

The  guy  who  wrote  'bout  Sunny  France, 
Must  have  been  in  an  awful  trance, 
Wish  the  ol'  sun  would  come  peepin'  thru, 
Perhaps  things  wouldn't  look  so  blue. 

Clouds  a  skootin'  overhead, 
I've  hiked  in  the  rain  'till  I'm  almost  dead; 
Damn — but  I'm  wet  clear  thru  to  the  skin, 
Wonder  Avhen  we're  "Coin'  In"? 


7- 


^^  /^ '  ^£)Sm^, 


^^^ 


Earth  seems  to  be  in  a  quivering  fright, 
Wonder  how  it'd  seem  to  be  home  tonight? 
Never  thot  I'd  be  "Over  Here," 
Gee,  but  this  rain  makes  a  fellow  feel  queer. 

Been  in  the  lines  near  thirty  days, 
Know  I'm  changed  in  lots  of  ways; 
Now  I  know  why  I  had  that  trainin' 
Wonder  if  it's  ever  gonna  stop  rainin'? 

Got  relieved  from  the  lines  last  night, 
Gee,  but  this  beard  of  mine's  a  fright, 
Must  'ave  hiked  a  thousand  kilos  or  more. 
Damn  this  rain  it's  makin'  me  sore. 

Been  in  the  lines  since  early  September, 
An'  here  it  is  'way  up  in  November, 
But  now  we  got  'em  on  the  run, 
Wonder  if  this  rain  is  rainin'  for  fun? 

Boys  ain't  talkin'  much  today, 
What  they're  thinkin'  no  one  can  say; 
We  just  got  the  news  that  the  war  is  done, 
Must  be  right  'cause  there's  the  sun. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Gassed" 

I've  gone  all  day  in  a  sort  of  a  daze. 

An'  felt  the  horror  of  death, 
I  don't  mind  the  fight  'cause  I  know  I'm  right, 

But  I'm  worried  about  my  breath. 

It  feels  like  a  ball  of  red-hot  fire. 
Turned  loose  from  hell's  own  door. 

An'  there  seems  to  be  no  ease  for  me, 
It's  hurting  me  more  and  more. 

I  can  feel  myself  go  crumbling, 

And  fall  in  a  sudden  heap, 
Then  slowly  the  truth  dawns  on  me, 

I  was  gassed  last  night  in  my  sleep. 

The  doctor  says  I'll  pull  thru  all  right. 
And  am  good  for  a  few  more  years. 

But  I'm  thinking  of  my  dear  old  mother. 
And  I  just  can't  keep  back  the  tears. 

I've  paid  the  debt  that  manhood  brings, 

To  make  an  ideal  stand  true, 
And  if,  perhaps,  I've  forgot  how  to  smile. 

Remember,  it  was  all  for  you. 


OK,  Boy! 


Dressed  again  in  your  civies, 

And  strolling  down  the  street, 
Some  day  a  former  officer. 

You  will  surely  meet. 

You  will  snap  up  to  attention, 

As  you've  always  done  before, 
Only  to  find  upon  inspection 

It's  the  officer  you  abhor. 

Then  your  thots  will  quickly  wander, 

'Way  back  to  "Rainy  France," 
And  you'll  get  the  inspiration, 

That  at  last  here  is  your  chance. 

So  you'll  bring  your  hand  up  smartly, 
"Till  it's  somewhere  near  your  nose. 

And  your  face  will  light  up  with  a  smile  of  joy, 
As  you  say  to  yourself,  "Here  Goes!" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


16 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Qlie  Medal 


It  is  not  a  bit  of  bronze  and  metal, 
That  tells  the  time-worn  tale. 

Of  some  act  of  heroism, 

Where  the  bullets  whine  and  wail. 


Nor  is  the  colored  ribbon, 

Pinned  on  some  strutting  chest, 

A  truthful  indicator. 

Of  the  man  who  fought  the  best. 

Nor  do  gold  stripes  upon  the  arm, 

Always  tell  the  story, 
Of  men  who  have  seen  action. 

Or  fought  their  way  to  glory. 


Those  are  outward  indications, 

Made  by  the  hand  of  man, 
The  way  they're  sometimes  passed  about, 

Is  quite  hard  to  understand. 


They'll  tarnish  with  the  weather, 

In  the  plush  or  on  the  shelf, 
For  the  real  and  lasting  medal, 

Is  the  soul  within  yourself. 

If  you  did  your  best  when  called  upon, 

In  the  air  or  gutted  shell-hole, 
You've  got  some  real  satisfaction, 

Buried    deep    within   your    soul. 

No  bit  of  bronze  or  ribbon  bright. 

Or  words  of  praise  high  spoken, 
Can  change  the  thots  that  lie  within, 

As  they  are  the  real  true  token. 

They'll  tell  the  tale  as  long  as  you  live. 

And  the  truth  of  how  you  fought. 
If  you  played  the  game  like  a  man,  my  friend, 

You've  the  medal,  that  can't  be  bought. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Visi 


isions 

In  early  morn  when  day  is  born, 

Night  shadows  start  to  fade, 
I  gaze  upon  a  land  shell-torn, 

That  war  alone  has  made. 
And  as  the  mist  begins  to  lift, 

Dim  lines  of  a  home  I  see. 
And  by  the  fates'  sardonic  twist, 

There  comes  a  vision  to  me. 

Instead  of  walls  which  barely  stand, 

Against  skylines  so  drear, 
Quaint  cozy  rooms  I  see  instead. 

And  all  that  they  hold  dear. 
As  plainly  tho  'tis  painted  there, 

A  happy  family  I  see, 
Gathered  'round  the  glowing  fireside, 

And  a  child's  on  a  fond  father's  knee. 

He's  telling  oft  told  tales  of  old, 

Their  childish  love  to  endear, 
'Tis  some  wondrous  fairyland  picture  he  paints, 

With  a  master's  stroke  that  is  clear. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost   Battalion 
Doughboy" 


Then  comes  the  end  of  this  simple  tale, 
'Tis  awarded  with  cries  of  delight, 

Lovelight  glows  in  their  trusting  eyes; 
As  in  turn  they  kiss  him  good  night. 

Off  to  bed  they  go  a-romping, 

Then  climb  up  some  queer  turning  stairs, 
By  a  crude  old-fashioned  home-made  bed, 

They  kneel  to  say  their  prayers. 
"Bless  mama,  and  papa,  and  give 

Peace  on  Earth,  good  will  to  men." 
Then  as  the  mother  tucks  them  in, 

One  shyly  whispers,  "Amen." 

But  now  the  vision  is  fading, 

And  again  by  the  will  of  fate, 
From  behind  barren  walls  comes  a  war-dog, 

And  all  thots  of  love  go  to  hate. 
From  my  right  comes  the  pop  of  a  "Browning,' 

Which  makes  my  blood  run  chill; 
My  Vision's  gone — I  stand  alone, 

My  business  here  is  to  kill. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


QKe  Pirate  Gun 


rW% 


Listen  to  the  tale  of  the  Pirate  Gun, 
That  kept  on  firing  when  the  war  was  done; 
'Twas  up  near  Stonney,  back  of  Raucort, 
Where  battles  were  long  and  rations  short. 

'Twas  Armistice  night,  and  we'd  hunted  all  day, 
For  a  place  to  sleep  in  the  "Frogs"  dry  hay. 
When  a  Pirate  Gun's  shell  screeched  over  the  hill, 
We  hurriedly  scattered  and  "dug  in"  with  a  will. 

Through  the  cold  wet  night,  'neath  a  mud  cressed 

knoll. 
We  shivered  and  shook  as  we  lay  in  our  hole, 
The  Captain  looked  worried,  things  didn't  seem 

right, 
And  he  cussed  with  the  rest  as  we  waited  all  night. 

He  was  mad  as  a  hornet  when  we  started  the  hunt, 
For  the  crazy  gun  that  had  pulled  that  stunt; 
And  after  we'd  hunted  all  day  in  vain. 
Everyone  was  cussing  that  gun  and  the  rain. 

When  "Bang!"  came  a  shot  from  right  under  our 

nose. 
And  there  lay  the  "Pirate  Gun"  fully  exposed. 
With  cries  of  rage  we  closed  in  on  the  Hun, 
And  that  was  the  end  of  the  "Pirate  Gun." 


OKe  Buck 

I'm  a  lucky  son-of-a-gun, 

I'm  the  guy  that  had  the  fun, 

My  clothes  were  never  spick  and  span, 

I  was  just  "Plain  Buck"— "The  Fightin'  Man." 

I  should  worry  if  my  feet  were  bare. 
Or  cooties  made  their  nests  in  my  hair, ' 
Or  the  Captain  cussed  me  every  day, 
I  went  right  along  in  my  own  plain  way. 

I  fought  the  battle  of  "Ole'  Vin  Roo"— 
And  was  in  on  the  drive  on  "Army  Stew," 
No  hampered  looeys  ever  broke  my  heart, 
I  just  stalled  along  and  did  my  part. 

Whenever  the  boys  felt  homesick  and  blue, 
They'd  call  on  me  for  a  story  or  two, 
I  made  them  laugh  with  my  song  and  dance, 
And  helped  put  some  sunshine  in  "Rainy  Ole' 
France." 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


\)iy**^ ' 


^>i 


I  never  craved  for  rank  or  fame, 
I  always  took  things  just  as  they  came. 
And  I  earned  a  title  that  will  always  stick; 
"Plain  Ole'  Buck,"— "Champion  Gold  Brick. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


Otose  Who  Wait 


Who  knows  the  thots  of  mothers  who  wait. 
Whether  in  grandeur,  or  lowly  state. 
Who  knows  the  sacrifice  of  those  who  give 
Their  all,  their  sons,  that  we  might  live? 

The  days  are  long  as  I  sit  here  and  knit. 
Fashioning  these  socks  for  him — ^bit  by  bit; 
My  thots  are  ever  one  constant  prayer, 
For  my  boy,  ray  all,  who's  "Over  There: 


»» 


The  long  endless  nights  bring  no  rest. 
My  baby  again  nestles  close  to  my  breast, 
The  sense  of  his  touch  brings  sweet  poignant  joy, 
"May  God  watch  o'er  him,  my  own — my  boy." 

He  was  only  a  lad,  but  then  he  would  go, 
I'm  heartsick,  dear  Lord,  but  proud  of  him  tho, 
Our  country  needed  him,  he  heard  the  call, 
Light's  gone  from  life,  for  he  is  my  all. 


Watching  the  mail  box  here  by  the  gate, 
For  I  know  not  what,  I  wait — and  wait — 
When  the  postman  stops,  my  heart  stands  still, 
My  body's  a-sweat  with  a  fevered  chill. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


*'Our  boys  have  gained  and  advanced  to  the 

Meuse, 
And  will  advance  beyond,"  so  reads  the  news; 
In  glowing  terms  they  praise  our  men, 
But  I'm  gripped  in  the  throes  of  that  fear  again. 

I  wait  'till  the  last,  before  I  look  at  the  list, 
The  words  go  blur,  as  my  eyes  grow  mist, 
I'm  stifling  and  choked  with  that  nameless  dread. 
Of  seeing  his  name  among  the  dead. 

Who  knows  the  thots  of  mothers  who  wait. 
Whether  in  grandeur,  or  lowly  state. 
Who  knows  the  sacrifice  of  those  who  give 
Their  all,  their  sons,  that  we  might  live? 


/^■'^m^'^' 


A< 


r^ 


?s:- 


-/ 


^eiiss??ei 


"Y* 


ff 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


My  Pah 


efe'??) 


> 


Of  three  Pals  of  mine  I  would  tell, 
And  how  they  helped  me  live  thru  hell, 
First,  there's  "Billy,"  my  old  gas  mask, 
And  for  a  better  Pal  you  could  never  ask. 

The  first  time  I  used  him   (well,  I  remember), 
Was  up  in  the  "Argonne,"  late  in  September; 
Gas  alarm  had  sounded,  it  brought  a  cold  chill. 
But  with  "Billy"  on,  it  changed  to  a  thrill. 

I  pictured  myself  laying  there  dead. 
But  grabbed  and  put  on  old  "Billy"  instead. 
Three  hours  we  lived  thru  that  hellish  gas, 
Since  then  he's  my  pal,  first  and  last. 

Now,  next  comes  "Jim,"  my  old  "diggin'  in" 

tool, 
And  he  was  more  than  a  pal,  except  to  a  fool. 

'd  helped  me  "dig  in"  both  night  and  day. 
And  made  me  war  wise  in  his  own  quiet  way. 

dug  thru  rock  and  sometimes  ground. 
Then  slept  the  sleep  of  a  dog-tired  hound. 
And  thru  any  battle  of  raging  hell, 

was  my  Pal,  and  served  me  well. 


?//V_^5.-.iliw^^''-i^ 


Last,  but  not  least,  comes  "Jack,"  that  boy. 
Who  was  my  one  comfort  and  eternal  joy. 
Only  a  "tin  derby"  he's  often  been  called. 
But  never  yet  has  old  Jack  stalled. 

IVe  used  him  as  a  writing  pad, 

And  as  a  seat  he's  not  half  bad; 

Used  him  to  pound  those  queer  tent  poles, 

And  for  protection  in  many  shell  holes. 

Battered  and  scarred,  shelltorn  and  marred, 
Beyond  all  recognition  was  he. 
For  turning  the  "Boches"  shrapnel, 
Had  been  his  real  specialty. 

He  nestled  close  to  my  kinky  head, 

And  kept  me  from  numbering  amongst  the  dead. 

That's  "Jack's"  story,  and  I'll  own. 

He  was  more  to  me  than  some  king's  throne. 


So,  if  perhaps  they  seem  a  bit  proud. 
Remember  they  are  one  of  ray  fighting  crowd,      /' 
And  now  they're  taking  a  well  earned  rest,  V 

In  the  corner  of  the  room  that  I  love  best. 


**Rhyme$ 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


History  of  4ie  Lost  Battalion 

-^fc^  HE  "LOST  BATTALION"  consisted  of 

C^J  Companies  A,  B,  C,  and  a  part  of  D 
Company  of  the  1st  Battalion;  Com- 
panies E,  F,  G,  and  H  of  the  2nd  Battalion,  and 
a  few  men  of  I  Company  of  the  308th  Regi- 
ment; also  some  men  from  the  306th  Machine 
Gun  and  the  307th  Infantry,  all  of  the  77th 
Division.  The  majority  of  this  famous  unit 
consisted  of  two  battalions  instead  of  one  as  is 
generally  believed. 

Originally  the  77th  Division  was  made  up  of 
New  York  men,  almost  entirely  from  the  East 
Side  or  the  "Melting  Pot"  of  New  York.  This 
Division  was  popularly  known  as  "New  York's 
Own,"  and  was  organized  at  Camp  Upton,  Yap- 
hank,  L.  I.,  during  the  early  part  of  September, 
1917. 

Before  taking  over  their  sector  of  the  Meuse- 
Argonne  offensive,  the  division  was  strengthened 
by  replacements  from  the  40th  Division,  which 
was  composed  of  men  from  all  parts  of  the 
West,  and  they  were  originally  stationed  at 
Camp  Kearney,  California. 


iiXl' 


The  1st  Battalion  was  led  by  Major  Charles 
W.  Whittlesey,  and  the  2nd  Battalion  by  Cap- 
tain George  G.  McMurtry,  with  Major  Whittle- 
sey in  command.  Both  men  were  gallant  leaders 
and  men  that  we  would  follow  anywhere.  Dur- 
ing those  trying  days  the  thoughtfulness,  cour- 
age and  leadership  displayed  by  those  two  men 
was  something  wonderful  to  see.  It  instilled 
into  the  hearts  of  their  men  that  undying  faith 
of  purpose,  the  courage  to  go  ahead  against 
overwhelming  odds,  and  carried  them  through 
six  indescribable  days  and  nights  of  suffering 
after  being  completely  cut  off  from  their  com- 
rades with  practically  no  food  or  water,  and 
were  subsisting  on  the  roots  and  leaves  of  trees, 
at  all  times  under  the  stress  of  heavy  enemy  fire, 
and  fighting  off  counter-attack  after  counter- 
attack, with  no  relief  in  sight. 

The  members  of  this  unit  were  never  at  any 
time  "Lost,"  as  the  name  would  seem  to  imply, 
but  they  were  "cut  off"  and  placed  in  two  sepa- 
rate and  distinct  "traps"  (officially  referred  to 
as  first  and  second  "pockets")  within  a  course 
of  ten  days'  time. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


V  >c=>'>fc=>'^^y(a:^^iijyg:: 


"Rhym*s 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


The  Argonne  Forest  was  considered  impreg- 
nable and  the  Germans  felt  secur©  in  their  pog- 
•ession  of  this  strategic  position- 

During  the  four  years  of  their  possession  they 
had  built  concrete  trenches,  theaters,  mammoth 
dugouts  and  equipped  them  as  well  as  our 
"Twentieth  Century"  homes,  including  electric 
lighting  systems  and  in  some  cases  even  porce- 
lain bath  tubs  and  beautiful  pianos.  That  they 
never  anticipated  this  stronghold  ever  being 
taken  from  them  is  mutely  proven  to  this  day 
by  the  wonder  work  that  some  of  their  sculptures 
carved  in  great  rocks  which  to  this  day  stand 
silent  guard  over  German  graves. 

During  those  four  years  the  Allied  Armies 
had  failed  to  make  a  dent  in  this  position,  as  it 
was  a  natural  stronghold  and  so  dense  with  un- 
derbrush that  paths  had  to  be  cut  through  it 
before  travel  was  possible.  The  Germans  or 
their  prisoners  had  cut  mile  upon  mile  of  trails 
through  these  woods,  and  had  laid  their  larger 
roads  with  young  saplings  in  order  to  withstand 


ytUhyifc^^aaycat's; 


the  travel  of  their  heavier  vehicles  and  dogs 
of  war.  These  positions  were  fully  covered  by 
machine  guns  from  protected  and  well  camou- 
flaged points,  some  even  in  trees  on  tops  of 
hills,  giving  them  a  full  sweep  as  far  as  they 
could  see.  These  trails  were  alive  with  machine 
gun  and  sniper's  fire  and  even  after  you  had 
taken  an  objective  you  would  receive  their  fire 
from  all  sides  as  well  as  back  of  you  from 
their  concealed  "nests."  This  natural  strong- 
hold was  strengthened  tenfold  by  their  wonder- 
ful line  of  trenches,  and  their  mammoth  dug- 
outs that  extended  so  far  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  that  even  aerial  bombardment  could  not 
affect  them. 

The  Germans  had  taken  advantage  of  this 
already  natural  stronghold  by  interlacing  its 
ravines,  mountains  and  wooded  slopes  with 
barbed  wire  entanglements  and  small  trip-wires 
in  such  a  manner  that  every  inch  of  that  ground 
was  a  hell-trap  of  its  own.  Every  art  known  to 
these  past  masters  of  "The  Art  of  War"  were 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


brought  into  play  to  make  this  one  point  in- 
vulnerable. 

The  first  "trap"  in  which  we  were  caught  came 
about  as  the  result  of  the  92nd  Division  (a  negro 
unit)  retiring  a  distance  of  from  two  to  three 
kilometers  after  encountering  stiff  resistance 
from  the  Germans  on  September  28th.  This 
left  a  large  gap  on  our  left  flank,  which  they 
had  formerly  occupied,  and  the  Germans  imme- 
diately took  advantage  of  this  and  closed  in  on 
us,  cutting  us  off'  before  we  realized  that  the 
92nd  had  fallen  back. 

We  were  in  that  "trap"  September  28th,  29th 
and  30th,  and  were  reunited  with  the  rest  of  the 
division  on  October  1st.  On  the  night  of  Octo- 
ber 2nd  the  battalion  was  again  caught  in  an- 
other "trap,"  which  lasted  for  a  period  of  six 
days  and  nights.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the 
men  suff"ered  greatly  during  these  periods. 

During  the  day  of  October  2nd,  Company  A 
(of  which  I  was  a  member)  was  badly  cut  up 


ymis^^s^ja^^'c^'^ 


while  taking  a  small  hill,  and  during  the  attack 
we  lost  90  men  in  less  than  30  minutes'  fighting. 
About  40  members  of  the  company,  including 
myself,  were  sent  back  by  Major  Whittlesey  to 
establish  posts  of  communication  and  to  act  as 
stretcher  bearers,  as  men  were  being  wounded 
faster  than  they  could  be  handled.  Eighteen  of 
the  company  remained  with  the  Major  and  were 
caught  in  the  second  trap. 

We  fought  desperately  during  those  six  days, 
going  "Over  the  Top"  as  often  as  three  times 
in  one  day.  That  you  may  have  some  idea  of 
the  cost  of  the  ground  taken  in  those  Argonne 
Woods,  can  give  you  the  facts  of  my  own  com- 
pany of  which  I  have  an  intimate  knowledge. 
We  went  "Over  the  Top"  on  the  morning  of 
September  26th  with  250  men,  and  on  the  night 
of  October  15th  there  were  only  44  of  us  fol- 
lowing Major  Whittlesey  out  of  the  front  lines  to 
the  second  lines  of  support  near  Grand  Pre. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost    Battalion 

Doughboy" 


,<VN;f=>-;i=ASi3Si'i;S^vsUjyg' 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


niie  FigKt  of  tKe  Lost  Battalion 

Back  of  Florent,  in  the  Argonne  Forest, 

Were  gathered  a  handful  of  men, 
Waiting  the  word  to  "go  in"  again; 

To  come  out — God  alone  knew  when. 

East  met  West  in  those  few  short  hours, 

And  were  drawn  together  as  one. 
As  brother  to  brother,  and  man  to  man, 

They  met  to  suppress  the  Hun. 

And  each  of  them  were  thinking  thots, 

That  come  to  but  very  few  men. 
For  on  the  'morrow  they'd  go  "Over  the  Top," 

Some  never  to  come  back  again. 

The  air  and  trees  were  full  of  sounds, 

As  we  started  "in"  that  night. 
You  could  hear  the  dull  thud  of  feet  on  the 
ground. 

As  we  went  marching  towards  the  fight. 

To  an  open  space  in  the  road  we  came, 

And  God!  what  a  sight  to  see; — 
The  skyline  was  one  red  flame, 

'Twas  our  barrage  for  Democracy, 


pH, 


32 


Sh-h!     Hush!     Make  no  noise. 

As  we're  "Going  In"  real  soon, 
And  you  could  almost  hear  the  heartbeats, 

As  we  crept  in  platoon  by  platoon. 

Soon  we  were  in  our  places, 

And  we  breathed  a  silent  prayer. 

As  we  waited,  waited  and  waited — 
Through  an  endless  night  "Up  There." 

At  eleven  P.  M.  on  that  eventful  night. 
Our  barrage  opened  up  with  a  flare; 

The  earth  it  trembled  and  shook  in  fright, 
And  death  just  leaped  through  the  air. 

God!  how  the  minutes  dragged. 
You'd  think  each  one  was  a  day, 

As  we  lay  there  waiting  in  the  cold. 
For  "Zero  Hour"  and  break  of  day. 

Finally  five-thirty,  the  "Zero  Hour"  came. 
And  the  word  passed  down  the  line. 

Go  "Over  the  Top,"  and  "Play  the  Game,' 
And  break  their  damn  "Kremhilde  lines." 


"Rhymes 
of  a 
Lost   Battalion 
Doughboy" 


'^Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


/  A 


/ 


What  did  we  find  when  finally  "On  Top" 
In  that  waste  called  "No  Man's  Land"? 

An  ocean  of  wire  in  the  mist  and  the  fog, 
Placed  there  by  the  devil's  hand. 

All  day  long  we  pushed  them  t»ack, 

By  night  we'd  their  second  line  trench, 

Then  we  "dug  in,"  and  waited  for  him, 
By  morn,  with  the  rain  we  were  drenched. 

The  men  were  gaunt  with  hunger, 
For  what  food  we  had  was  gone, 

And  there  was  the  "Boche"  ahead  of  us, 
But  we  pushed  on,  and  on  and  on! 

Were  you  ever  out  on  the  battlefields, 
With  the  dead  just  stacked  all  around. 

The  earth  in  a  tremble  from  fear  and  fright, 
Of  the  blood  on  its  sacred  ground? 


While  comrades  you  loved  as  brothers  and  more, 
Lay  wounded,  and  moaning  in  pain, 

In  your  heart  a  gnawing  emptiness — 
Was  that  costly  price  worth  the  gain? 

Well,  for  three  days  we  went,  till  our  strength 
was  spent, 

'Midst  sights  too  terrible  to  tell. 
By  the  time  we  landed  in  a  trap  that  night, 

I  can  tell  you,  we'd  all  seen  hell. 

Exhausted  from  fighting  and  dead  for  sleep. 
We  dug  ourselves  in  for  the  night; 

And  as  we  lay  there  'neath  the  shell-split  air 
We  felt  'twas  the  end  of  our  fight. 

At  break  of  dawn  the  Boche  closed  in, 

We  met  him  face  to  face — 
And  many  there  were  who  fell  that  day, 

But  night  found  us  still  in  our  place. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


For  three  long  days  we  fought  in  that  trap, 

In  mud  clear  up  to  our  knees, 
Sleepless,  hungry,  dying  from  thirst, 

'Neath  those  splintered  Argonne  tree*. 

All  hopes  gone,  our  hearts  in  despair. 
When  a  whisper  came  down  the  line, 

At  last  the  longed-for  relief  had  arrived, 
God  knows  it  came  just  in  time. 

We  went  at  the  food  like  a  pack  of  wolves, 
That  had  starved  the  whole  winter  through, 

And  between  the  munching  of  bites  you'd  hear 
Mumbled  prayers,  and  curses,  too. 

No  one  could  picture,  try  as  they  might. 

The  horror  and  hell  of  it  all, 
Our  company  lost  ninety  men  before  night, 

It  seemed  to  matter  as  nothing  at  all. 


But  on  and  on  we  carried  the  fight, 
And  we  crushed  the  best  they  had, 

We  gained  our  objective,  were  trapped  again, 
Then  we  went  mad — fighting  mad. 

On  the  side  of  a  cliff  two  hundred  feet  high, 

We  dug  in  like  so  many  moles, 
And  death  was  the  penalty  that  you  paid. 

Should  you  stick  your  head  from  those  holes. 

Did  you  ever  lay  out  in  the  cold  all  night, 
When  the  frost  just  creeps  through  the  air. 

When  death  and  misery  stalks  the  night, 
Like  a  giant  bat  of  despair? 

If  you  have,  perhaps  you  can  sense. 

Of  the  things  I'm  trying  to  tell, 
And  why  every  man  who  came  out  alive. 

Could  say  that  he'd  lived  through  hell. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Fighting  all  day,  holding  out  by  pure  grit, 
And  fighting  at  night  by  the  flare, 

The  suffering  we  bore  can  never  be  told, 
Of  those  six  days  and  nights  spent  there. 

Death  thinned  our  ranks,  took  tenfold  her  toll, 
Of  our  buddies,  your  brothers  and  5ons, 

But   before  they  went,   tho   their   strength  was 
spent, 
They  took  their  share  of  Huns. 

Relief  came  at  last  as  it  always  does. 

When  you're  backed  by  red-blooded  men, 

But  we  were  so  weak,  so  many  were  gone. 
Nothing  mattered  at  all  by  then. 

We  stumbled  out  more  dead  than  alive, 

To  food,  shelter  and  rest, 
While  tender  hands  cared  for  those. 

Who  had  passed  to  eternal  rest. 


Countless  questions  you  will  ask, 
About  that  terrible  war, 
Our  Company  went  in  two-fifty  strong — 
And  came  out  with  but  forty  and  four." 


"Mo^ 


)» 


er 


At  the  close  of  a  spring  day  in  Sable, 

I  sat  in  my  room  alone, 
The  sun  was  slowly  sinking 

And  my  thots  turned  back  to  home. 

Thots  of  my  dear  old  mother, 
And  how  much  was  hers  to  bear; 

Then  in  fancy  I  could  see  her 
In  the  old  familiar  chair. 

Always  thinking  of  me, 

And  always  praying,  too; 
Slowly,  the  truth  dawned  on  me, 

Of  how  much  she'd  been  thru. 

Of  the  long,  endless  nights  of  waiting, 
And  those  anxious  days  of  pain; 

Wishing,  hoping,  praying, 
That  I  might  return  again. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Trie  Flare! 


You  who  know  electric  lights, 
In  cities  grand  and  fair, 

Have  never  felt  the  fear  of  night, 
Unless  you've  seen  the  Flare! 

You're  all  secure  altho  obscure, 
And  will  never  know  the  fright. 

That  can  be  brought  upon  you, 
By  the  Flare  when  it's  a-light. 

Your  heart  is  all  a-jump 

And  your  nerves  are  all  a-chill. 
When  you  start  to  go  a-raidin', 

On  a  night  that's  dark  and  still. 


You  daren't  make  a  whisper, 
And  you  daren't  make  a  sound, 

As  you  go  a-sneakin',  creepin', 
O'er  the  cold  wet  ground. 


Crawling  o*er  the  gutted  earth, 
In  "No  Man's  Land"  o'er  there, 

The  thing  you're  most  a-feared  of, 
Is  Jerries'  blue-white  Flare! 


For  when  he  shoots  the  star-shells. 

Into  the  dark  drear  night, 
You're  a  mark  for  sniper's  shooting, 

And  you're  filled  with  fear  and  fright. 

But  just  you  lay  stock-still. 

As  tho  you're  almost  dead, 
And  he's  apt  to  pass  you  up, 

For  some  limb  or  tree  instead. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy^* 


Then  you'll  see  him  start  a-shootin'. 

Rockets  green  and  red. 
They're  his  artillery  signals. 

For  his  guns  which  must  be  fed. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


You  break  into  a  cold  wet  sweat, 
As  you  cut  your  way  thru  wire, 

You  want  to  even  up  a  score. 
And  your  heart  is  all  a-fire. 

So  thru  the  night  that's  sometime  dim, 

And  sometime  lit  by  flare, 
You  crawl  and  creep  as  thru  an  age, 

An'  softly  swear  and  swear! 

And  just  as  dawn  is  breaking, 

In  a  fever  tinted  light, 
You  slowly  come  a-creepin'  in. 

With  two  you  got  that  night. 

You're  bewildered  and  bemuddled, 
To  know  that  you  learned  out  there, 

That  the  thing  that  put  fear  into  you, 
Was  the  light  of  a  blue-white  Flare. 


The  Debt 

My  Pals  are  all  around  me, 

It  seems  like  a  horrible  dream, 
But  there  goes  my  "Buddie"  damn  bad  hit, 

And  I  go  mad  when  I  hear  his  scream. 

My  blood  boils  up  in  red,  red  rage. 

And  I  lose  the  last  of  my  will; 
I'm  turned  to  beast  and  mad  man. 

And  my  cry  is  to  kill — to  kill! 

I  rage  and  mutter  all  the  night. 

And  wait  for  the  break  of  day; 

For  my  mind  is  mad  with  that  one  thot, 

They  must  re-pay! — re-pay! 
#     *     *     * 

You're  gone,  so  why  should  I  lie, 

And  say  that  life's  worth  while, 
When  gladly  I'd  join  you  where  you  are, 

Just  to  see  once  again  your  smile. 

I'll  try  my  best  to  square  the  debt, 

But,  Pal,  it  can  never  be  done, 
So  may  you  rest  in  peace  o'er  here, 

'Neath  the  new-made  cross  that  you've  won. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughb^" 


i  reasures 

Treasures  in  bits  of  papers, 

Treasures  in  mines  of  gold, 
Treasures  in  age  seared  relics, 

And  in  paintings  worn  and  old. 

Each  to  his  way  of  thinking, 

Has  a  treasure  in  his  grasp, 
Mine  came  from  the  heart  of  a  rough-neck, 

And  lay  in  a  simple  hand-clasp. 

'Twas  in  the  lines  in  the  heat  of  a  fight. 

And  the  devil  was  our  host, 
He  showed  us  all  his  tricks  and  stunts. 

As  we  lay  in  a  stranded  outpost. 

"Without  water,  food  or  shelter. 

We  had  lain  there  for  days, 
Exhausted  and  slowly  dying, 

And  our  eyes  were  beginning  to  glaze. 

Our  instructions  were  to  hold  that  post. 
Against  any  odds  that  might  come, 

And  we  were  sticking  it  out  alone, 
I  and  my  Dago  chum. 


Just  a  bit  of  so-called  Wop, 

Was  this  boy  along  with  me, 
But  fighting  just  as  hard  as  I, 

Who  was  born  of  Liberty. 

It  was,  "Whata-da-hell,  let  'em  a-come. 
We  fight  'em-a  hard,  you  and  I, 

Whatsa  the  diff'?     It's-a  all  for  da  cause. 
And  somatime  we  moosta  die. 

"I  got-a  da  sweet  leetle  wife, 

That's-a  wait  at  home  for  me, 
Deesa  a  war  she's  a  tough-a  game, 

But  we  gota  have  Liberty." 

Then  Tony  told  me  his  story, 
As  we  lay  in  post  number  four. 

And  why  he  was  so  willing  to  die 

For  the  country  he  loved  and  adored. 

"When-a  I  was  just  a  leetle  a-boy, 

Back  eena  Sunny  Italy, 
I  hear  my  father  speek  of  thing, 

That  he  call-a  Liberty. 

"In  a  country  that's-a  paved  with  gold. 
Where  every  a-man  is  a-da  same, 

And-a  I  and  evra  a-boddy, 

Has  gota  da  chance  for  da  fame. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Wher-a  no  King  and  Queen  da  tel-a  you 
Joosta  what  you  got-a  to  do, 

I'm  a  get-a  thinkin'  to  myself, 
How  grand  if  datsa  true. 

"So  by-un-by  I  grow  up, 

Beega  strong-a  boy,  'bout  seexteen, 
And  I  come  along  in  a  steerage  boat, 

To  the  land  of  which  I  dream. 

And  there  I  find-a  joosta  so  true, 
Evra-ting  is  a-right; 
I'm-a  live  in-a  great-a  country. 
My  own-a  boss  day  and  nights 

Evra-a-boddy  joosta  so  free, 
Almost-a  like  da  bird, 
Joosta  work  so  much-a  evra  day 
No  lik-a  da  sheep  are  you  herd. 

An'  den,  I  meet-a  my  sweet-a  Marie, 
So  we  get-a  marry  one  nic-a  day. 
And  we  mak-a  nic-a  home, 
By  time,  leetla  babee  cum  our  way, 

"An'  evra  thing  joosta  so  nice, 
I'm  a  cum  along  joosta  fine, 

Until-a  da  Kaiz,  he  get  so  fresh, 
Right  about  deesa  time. 


"Evra  thing  he  want  ta  take, 
An'  mak-a  do  joost  what  he  said, 

I'm-a  no  like  data  stoff, 
I'd  much-a  rather  be  dead. 

"So  I  grab-a  da  gun  and  cum  along, 
Joosta  like  all  da  rest  who're  here, 

'Cause  I'm-a  fight  for  what  is  right, 
And-a  my  leetl-a  home  so  dear. 

"I  don't-a  mind-a  dees  now, 

'Cause  we  here  all  alone, 
Evra  teeng  she  cum  out  all-a  right, 

An'  by-time  we  soon  go  home. 

"So  joosta  you  lie  quiet. 
While  I  look-a  'round  a-bit. 

But  don't-a  forget  to  tell-a  Marie, 
In  case  I'm-a  mabbe  get  hit." 

He  took  and  shook  me  by  the  hand. 

And  started  out  alone, 
To  me  it  brought  an  awakening, 

And  the  treasure  now  I  own. 

So  I'm  done  with  material  treasures. 

Relics,  mines,  and  things, 
And  treasure  instead  the  memories, 

Of  love  that  sacrifice  brings. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Old  Detail  Army 

Doggone  this  Detail  Army, 

Is  all  I've  got  to  say. 
Ever  since  the  Armistice, 

We've  been  laboring  night  and  day. 

When  the  fighting  was  all  over, 

And  we  thot  the  job  was  done. 
They  handed  us  a  shovel. 

And  took  away  our  gun. 

The  French  Folks  only  laughed  at  us, 

(They  did  it  on  the  sly), 
When  our  bold  and  noble  white-winged  squad 

Went  sadly  marching  by. 

I  never  thot  that  I  would  be, 

A  street-cleaner  brave  and  bold. 
Until  I  started  cleaning  up  France, 

In  the  sleet,  the  rain  and  the  cold. 

From  K.  P.  to  loading  box  cars, 

They  worked  you  night  and  day. 
So  doggone  this  "Old  Detail  Army," 

Is  all  I  have  to  say. 


Cooties 

When  you're  standing  at  attention, 
And  the  cooties  duck  below; 

Just  the  way  they  come  for  seconds, 
Ain't  it  hell?— Well,  I'll  say  so! 

In  the  lines  the  boys  were  diggin* 
With  their  shovels  to  get  in; 

While  the  "cootie"  rigged  his  digger 
With  his  rig  for  digging  in. 

At  the  front  the  Majors  had  'em, 
Every  Captain  raised  his  share; 

But  there  sure  was  Hell  a-poppin' 
When  a  "Buck"  had  one  to  spare. 

Now  every  nation  has  them, 
The  great  ones  and  the  small ; 

But  for  "tame"  and  "naughty"  cooties. 
Rainy  France,  she  leads  them  all. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


Tlie  Bandoli 


:!:S!. ':'. ::::     •:■•  ••  : ' 

mM  iiiiiiii 


oner 

Perhaps  in  the  mud  you've  seen  me  laying, 

Or  perhaps  in  the  Q.  M.  den; 
But  still  and  all  I'm  one  of  you, 

No  matter  where  or  when. 

I  fill  a  want  that  is  a  need, 

As  across  your  shoulder  I'm  slung, 

And  done  my  bit  as  well  perhaps, 
As  some  highly  touted  gun. 

Just  a  bit  of  woven  cloth. 

Thrown  slightingly  about, 
But  when  in  the  midst  of  a  tough  hot  fight. 

Pray  tell,  for  whom  did  you  shout? 

I'm  the  one  for  whom  you  cried, 

And  gladly  did  I  respond, 
I  knew  your  hour  of  need  would  come. 

That's  why  I  was  easily  found. 


I  flung  myself  around  your  neck. 

When  you  started  in  the  fight, 
Stop  a  moment  and  reflect, 

You'll  see  where  I  was  right. 

Just  a  lowly  bit  of  patch  cloth, 

Humble  carrier  of  the  shell, 
I  served  my  purpose  just  as  true. 

As  you  who  did  so  well. 

So  if  again  some  day  we  meet. 

Don't  start  and  cuss  and  jeer, 
Just  remember  I'm  your  "right  hand  bower," 

Your  humble  bandolier. 

The  bandolier  was  used  as  a  carrier  of  our 
extra  rifle  ammunition,  and  they  would  hold  120 
shells  each.  When  going  in  the  lines  we  would 
oftentimes  pack  from  four  to  six  of  these  slung 
across  our  shoulder,  and  we  would  heartily  tell 
the  world  that  they  were  heavy,  etc.,  but  it  wasn't 
long  before  we  were  more  than  willing  to  pack 
them  as  we  soon  learned  that  in  time  of  need 
they  were  our  one  best  bet. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"TKots! 


>> 


^y 


Oh!  to  get  away  from  it  all, 

Those  war-ridden  thots,  that  come, 

To  blind  forever  those  memories, 
And  the  sound  of  the  bullets'  hum. 

To  live  once  more,  as  I  did  before, 

In  peace  and  quiet  and  rest; 
To  just  forget  for  a  little  while, 

That  it  took  from  my  life  the  best. 

At  night,  when  all  is  quiet. 

And  I'm  lying  alone  in  bed, 
There  comes  a  vision  of  battlefields, 

The  fight,  the  maimed  and  the  dead. 

Will  I  never  forget  that  hell  "Over  There," 

And  the  tales  the  battlefields  tell. 
Of  the  price  my  "Buddies"  paid  with  "their  all," 

And  the  place  in  which  they  fell? 


And  there's  my  two  best  "Buddies" 
I  can  see  them  plain  as  can  be, 

A  layin'  "Out  There"  crumpled  heaps, 
And  seems  like  they're  calling  to  me. 

I  can  hear  the  big  'uns  screech  and  scream, 
As  they  go  flying  o'er  my  head, 

They  seem  to  say,  both  night  and  day, 
"Remember  the  dead — the  dead." 

And  sometimes  I  think,  as  I  sit  alone, 
Perhaps  it  might  have  been  best, 

If  I  too,  had  paid  that  great  price, 
And  were  out  there  now  with  the  rest. 

Oh!  those  war  cursed  thots, 

That  haunt  me  night  and  day; 
Dear  God,  be  merciful. 

And  take  them  forever  away. 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


*Kr^<^. 


'^.2^' 


"Rhymes 
of  a 

Lost  Battalion 
Doughboy" 


Our  Chaplain 

He  came  and  went  amongst  our  midst, 

With  never  a  sign  of  a  gun, 
His  mind  unseared  or  war-crazed. 

With  thots  of  taming  the  Hun. 

His  mission  was  one  of  kindness, 
And  no  matter  what  his  creed. 

You'd  always  find  him  near  us, 
Whene'er  we  were  in  need. 

I've  seen  him  go  amongst  the  maimed, 
To  bind  and  dress  their  wounds, 

Then  pray  o'er  loved  ones  laid  to  rest, 
While  shells  played  shrieking  tunes. 

When  "Going  In,"  to  do  our  spell. 

He'd  grasp  us  by  the  hand. 
And  tell  us  in  this  simple  way, 

That  God  did  understand. 

You  proved  yourselves  God's  noblemen. 
And  played  the  game  clear  thru; 

Where'er  your  station  is   today. 
My  hat  is  off  to  you. 

To  Father  Halligan,  Chaplain  of  the  308th  Infantry 


Buddi 


les 


From  the  IVorth,  the  East,  South  or  West, 
When  called  upon,  we  sent  our  best, 
And  thru  that  "Melting  Pot"  o'er  there, 
Hearts  were  moulded,  souls  laid  bare. 

A  simple  greeting  known  as  "Buddy," 
Is  worthy  of  a  philosopher's  study. 
No  matter  whether  man  or  lad, 
That's  the  one  greeting  we  all  had. 

From  as  small  a  thing,  as — "Gimme  a  light," 
To  laying  down  his  life  in  a  fight. 
There  was  no  color,  nor  was  there  creed. 
Whenever  a  "Buddy"  was  in  need. 

A  man  may  have  been  of  the  Gospel  bred, 
Or  so  low,  that  even  his  name  was  dead, 
Yet  when  he  grasped  a  "Buddy's"  hand. 
There  passed  a  love  they  alone  understand. 

Country,  color,  creed  or  station, 
Were  moulded  as  one,  in  War's  Devastation,  ^ 

When  "Buddies"  went  on  to  that  unknown  goal,   ''' 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  soul  to  soul. 


**Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


TKat  Hike 


Hey,  Fellows! — 

Remember  the  time 
The  Kaiz  got  wise, 

And  took  to  the  Rhine? 

Well,  we  were  at  Raucort, 

Waitin'  returns. 
When  on  November  eleventh 

The  war  adjourns. 

So  gladly  we  mounted 

Our  packs  on  our  back, 
With  a  song  in  our  hearts, 

We  started  back. 

Only  to  be  stopped 

At  Ouches  next  day. 
And  sent  up  to  Mouzon, 

Which  was  the  other  v^ray. 

We  did  five  days'  "Guard," 

In  the  cold  up  there, 
We'll  never  forget  our  billet, 

That  gray  church  in  the  square. 


Then  came  a  rush  order, 
"Roll  packs  right  away," 

As  we'd  parade  in  New  York 
On  Christmas  day. 

So  for  six  days  we  hiked, 
'Till  we  came  to  Floren', 

I  guess  you  remember — 
We  were  damn  near  all  in. 

But  we  were  headed  home, 

So  didn't  care  a  rap. 
As  we'd  been  to  the  Front, 

And  were  used  to  that. 

But  when  they  deloused  us, 
Oh,  boy!     How  we  swore — 

For  they'd  hiked  us  to  Les  Isalets, 
Which  was  twelve  kilos  or  more. 

Then  early  and  bright 
The  very  next  day, 
We  continued  "That  Hike, 
'On  to  Broadway." 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doushboy" 


"Rhymei 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doiighhoy" 


Nine  more  weary  days, 

We  hiked  up  and  down  hills, 

Until  finally  we  landed 
In  Pointlaville. 

Why  grumble  now — 

You  know  it's  all  over, 
No  doubt  you're  back  home 

In  the  land  of  clover. 

But  if  ever  you  think 

Things  are  breaking  tough, 
Just  remember  "THAT  HIKE"— 

"THAT'S  ENOUGH." 

"THAT  HIKE,"  is  a  true  and  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  a  forced  march  made  by  the  entire  77th 
Division  at  the  close  of  the  war.  We  covered 
a  distance  of  about  155  miles  on  that  hike  and 
it  took  us  fifteen  days  in  all.  While  our  kitchens 
followed  us  they  had  practically  no  food  at 
all,  and  for  Thanksgiving  breakfast  they  handed 
us  out  from  four  to  five  stewed  prunes  each, 
and  a  hard  luck  story,  and  we  hiked  twelve  miles 
that  day  in  the  rain. 


"We  Are  Coming  Back" 

It's  the  coming  back,  I  hate  worst  of  all. 
It  grates  on  my  nerves  worse  than  gall, 
A  wreck,  they'll  say,  when  I  land  today. 
And  with  sighs  of  pity  they'll  turn  away. 

With  empty  sleeve  and  face  a  mess, 
I'm  no  more  than  half  a  man,  I  guess. 
And  it's  tearing  my  heart  slowly  apart. 
And  I  wonder  how  I'll  make  a  new  start. 

I  left  these  shores  not  so  long  ago. 

As  fit  as  any  man  who'd  go, 

1  held  my  head  high  as  could  be. 

And  was  proud  to  fight  for  our  Liberty. 

For  it  isn't  so  hard  to  go  in  and  fight. 
When  you  know  your  cause  is  more  than  right, 
And  it  isn't  so  hard  for  men  to  die, 
The  hardest  of  all  is  to  hear  folks  sigh. 

So  help  me  forget,  don't  sympathize, 
I  can't  get  cheery  on  long  drawn  sighs, 
Just  take  and  shake  my  one  good  hand. 
Then  I'll  know  you  understand. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


A 


ill 


^fH 


hiu 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Home'ward  Bound" 


As  I  stand  on  this  transport  here  by  the  rail. 
Watching  her  plow  thru  the  foam; 

There's  just  on©  thing  I  can  think  about, 
And  that  is,  we're  "Going  Home." 

Many  is  the  time  while  at  the  front, 

In  some  battle  of  raging  hell; 
I'd  lift  my  voice  to  the  One  above, 

That  He  guide  me  home  safe  and  well. 

All  the  sweetness  and  joys  of  life, 
Are  embodied  in  these  two  words. 
Homeward  Bound,"  my,  don't  they  sound  nice; 
When  your  heart's  just  as  light  as  a  bird's? 

And  I,  for  one,  as  I  stand  here  alone, 

Thank  my  Maker  above, 
That  I'm  permitted  to  be  "Homeward  Bound," 

To  the  ones  I  so  dearly  love. 


a 


Let's  Go!" 


'Twas  Uncle  Sammy's  doughboys 
That  put  the  kibosh  on  the  Hun; 

Now  we're  waiting  for  "That  Transport' 
And  we'll  take  her  on  the  run. 

Oh,  why  do  you  wait,  Mr.  Baker? 

Just  send  us  a  ship  or  a  raft; 
For  the  U.  S.  A.  and  our  freedom, 

We'd  sail  on  any  old  craft. 

At  first  we  were  going  home  Christmas, 
And  then  on  New  Year's  Day; 

Bu{  now  it's  the  fifteenth  of  April, 
Unless  they  change  it  to  May. 

Now  General  Pershing's  motto 

Is  a  good  one,  we  all  know; 
"Let's  get  where  we're  going  today,  boys,' 

And  you  bet,  we're  ready  to  go. 

The  Statue  of  Liberty  beckons 
To  her  soldiers  across  the  sea; 

■'Let's  go!"  and  get  where  we're  going. 
Back  home,  to  the  land  of  the  free. 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost  Battalion 

Doughboy" 


m 


:^> 


[3- 


!V: 


"The  Price 


»> 


Now  listen  here,  old  Pal  of  mine, 
IVe  fought  from  the  Vesle  clear  up  to  the  Rhine, 
At  Chateau-Thierry  and  in  the  Argonne  Wood, 
I  did  my  bit  as  best  I  could. 

Why,  I've  cut  my  way  through  an  ocean  of  wire. 
And  stood  the  test  when  under  fire, 
I've  lain  in  the  cold  and  the  rain  all  night, 
Fought  like  hell  for  what  I  thot  was  right. 

I've  marched  to  the  band  and  felt  mighty  proud. 
Because  I  was  one  of  that  fighting  crowd, 
Now  I'm  back  in  this  land  of  ours. 
And  will  be  in  my  civies  in  a  few  short  hours. 

But,  somehow  or  other  it  all  seems  bare. 
And  I  feel  like  hell  when  people  stare. 
For  some  are  thinking  of  loved  ones  lost. 
And  others  of  how  much  we're  going  to  cost. 

And  that's  the  bunch  I'm  sore  about. 
The  patriot  who  was  so  willing  to  shout, 
Then  turn  us  out  when  we  came  home, 
On  two  months'  pay  in  the  world  to  roam. 


.-^ 


noil 


n  "^ 


"The  Returns" 

Buddy  of  mine,  you're  wrong,  all  wrong, 
You'll  soon  again  be  one  of  the  throng. 
Not  as  you  were  when  you  went  away, 
But  a  proved  man  now,  the  man  of  the  day. 

Why,  boy,  just  think  of  what  you've  been  thru, 
And  the  glory  of  knowin'  that  you've  been  true, 
Think  of  the  "Buddies"  whom  you  gave  a  hand. 
Why,  you  gained  the  love  of  your  fellow  man. 

Think  of  the  knowledge  you  did  gain, 

When  you  pushed  clear  thru  to  Alsace-Lorraine, 

Think  for  a  moment  of  some  homely  French 

folk. 
That  you  helped  release  from  the  Hun's  terrible 

yoke. 

Why,  they  expressed  to  you  in  their  attitude, 
An  ocean  of  love  and  reaJ  gratitude, 
And  in  one  small  second  of  that  war, 
You've  lived  a  thousand  lives  or  more. 

Tho  you  may  not  have  your  share  of  gold. 
What  you  learned  "Up  There"  is  wealth  untold; 
And  the  big  thing  you  gained  from  what  you've 

been  thru; 
Is  that  high  ideal  of  being  true. 

m 


"Rhymes 

of  a 

Lost   Battalion 

Doughboy" 


From  St.  Mihiel  to  the  Vesle, 
With  the  night  wind's  sorrowful  wail, 
Goes  a   sound  that's  understood, 
"Gather  here  in  Argonne  Wood.' 

Thru  the  night  winds  wet  and  dreary, 
The  word  goes  on  to  Chateau-Thierry, 
Ghostly  Phantoms  hear  the  call, 
Then  gather  those  who  gave  their  "all." 

Phantom  heroes  gather  there. 
In  shell-torn  land,  so  Lleak  and  bare. 
And  there  beneath  the  sighing  tree, 
They  are  judging  you  and  me. 

By  the  flitting  shadow  light. 
By  the  mystic  shades  of  night. 
In  the  one-time  shell-split  air. 
Phantom  Souls  are  judging  there. 

So  listen  well  unto  that  call 
O  Phantom  souls  who  gave  their  all. 
And  may  you  never  droop  your  head, 
In  answer  to  our  own — our  dead. 


xzr 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


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